


When You're a Stranger

by andthekitchensink



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demons, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Demonic Possession, Don't copy to another site, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:07:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22050790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andthekitchensink/pseuds/andthekitchensink
Summary: It's late Fall in Detroit, complete with an endless downpour and dark nights that never seem to end. Things are beginning to unravel in the worst possible ways. It begins with the death of a man, and it isn't the last one...but nor is it the first one, either.On one end, Father Hank Anderson, a Lutheran priest who has devoted his life to demonology: considered a specialist by the clergy, he is no less a bit of an outsider, known to use whatever tools he can use in the fight against evil - even if it’s fruit off the wrong religious branch.On the other end, atheist Connor Stern, Detective Sergeant on the rise; guided and troubled by what his partner, Det Gavin Reed calls his ‘radar’, Connor has no idea of the critical part he’ll play in the days to come.Stuck somewhere in the middle, is a nine-year-old girl with psychic powers, called Alice Williams, and her unfortunate but determined babysitter, Kara.
Relationships: Connor & Gavin Reed, Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 10
Kudos: 12





	1. Faces Come Out of the Rain

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by the movie Deliver Us from Evil, and basically every movie or tv show I've ever watched about demonic possession or the supernatural as an evil force. Also, some elements are heavily influenced by another of Quantic Dream's games, Fahrenheit, aka Indigo Prophecy.
> 
> Just a heads up that this fic will cover some gruesome crime scenes with clinical, if somewhat graphic, descriptions of dead people. Another heads up: Hank is not your usual priest, but then again, Connor isn't your usual atheist either. 0 :)
> 
> Another note: I'll be the first to tell you I don't like Reed in-game. He served his purpose there, and that's it. Here, he serves a different purpose, which means I'm going to write him a bit differently from canon. Nothing new, there. Just so you know why he's suddenly a little bit less of an ass. ;)
> 
> Beware the tags. I'll add to them as soon as I think of something, or write something more gruesome in the coming chapters. If not, always read the chapter notes at the beginning.

* * *

When it rains, it pours, and Detroit in late October was always going to be a rainy, sopping wet affair in the more literal sense. This year was no different: sunshiny days were brought to a halt by downpour so sudden and so relentless not even an umbrella did any good. The longer the year went, the darker it got, with night creeping in ever closer to dawn until there were only a few hours of daylight left, and it could hardly be called a day at all, by the time November came along. At least when the sun was up, you could forget about the things that lurk in the dark. But when the sun would set no later than half past two in the afternoon, day in and day out, there was simply nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. Unless of course you had lived with the shadows all your life, and you understood them. ...well enough. In part.

Or, at least, you knew how to avoid the things that lurked. The things that crept into people while they slept and distorted them, twisted them into shadow figures without any remnant of a face but for the many, many teeth framing their maw. Better to gobble up little children. Or unsuspecting babysitters, realizing far too late that they're in over their head. Such as Kara, who sat huddled with her favorite, precocious kid under a staircase onset by years of neglect and decay. How a shadow could take physical form went beyond her wildest nightmares.

But. Here they were - listening to sharp teeth clattering above their heads and the steps creaking under the weight of the physically impossible. Kara's breath shuddered, her chin wobbling. She could swear it was loud enough to wake the dead, but she couldn't stop breathing.

Alice looked up at her, cool as a cucumber, and she held her close, hugged her like their lives depended on not letting each other go. Alice just... looked up at her. She'd been here before. It was all old hat to her - not that she didn't shiver, but she had learned to be brave.

"Just keep still," she whispered, though hardly any sound escaped her at all. She could have simply mouthed the words, for how quiet she was. Kara was all ears. "It can't see us if we don't move."

Kara didn't nod, so much as her chin shivered in response. She couldn't breathe, but she couldn't stop, and she had to be strong. Just stay still. Just keep still. "Is that the willowy man?" Alice shook her head in the tiniest of increments. No... "He sees  _ everything _ ..."

***

Elsewhere, some forty minutes north, out in the ‘burbs of Metro Detroit, Father Anderson was having another busy night. With the news on in the living room, he sat by the kitchen table with his trusted old notebook, pencil scratching away at the paper. Old school, like his sticky notes. He had an unlit cigarette clamped at the corner of his mouth - also old school - and a nicotine patch slapped onto his bicep, which was barely visible, peeking out from the edge of his t-shirt sleeve. Black Sabbath. Vintage. Trusted guard dog at his feet, like always. Sumo wasn’t the best of guard dogs, but he could hear things Hank couldn’t, and smell things, too. It had saved his life more than once (more often than he cared to think, if he were honest). Completely guileless, he was, the big St Bernard. Couldn’t lie to save his own life, heart on his sleeve, let you know the moment something was up. In the seven years they’d shared, they’d grown attuned to one another in ways that couldn’t quite be explained. It simply was, like some sort of symbiosis. They kept each other alive, and would keep doing it until the day one (or both) of them died.

Scratch-scratch went the pen, Hank jotting down whatever caught his ear. He never knew what the day would bring until it well and truly  _ brung it _ , but he liked the ritual of staying on top of things. You’d never know if the illusion of being prepared would save you, or if it was all just a case of stupid luck and the help of your very own K-9 unit.

Tonight was going to be a bad one, just going by the nine o’clock news. Suspicious bag left unattended at the train station, assault, robbery, an ‘incident’ at the Detroit Zoo where a visitor began ranting and raving, subsequently threatening other visitors with violence and going so far as to physically hurl one of the wrought iron benches at one of the enclosures.

The new presenter said it took five officers to restrain the visitor. Hank’s pencil stopped scratching, the tip tearing through the paper with a sickening rrrrrip; pushing the notepad to the side, Hank moved into the living room to catch the last few glimpses of a familiar face flashing across the holo tv. Pixelated though it was, to protect the identities of those involved, Hank knew the man by his build. He’d recognize that slicked mop of hair anywhere.

That was his sponsor, Zlatko Andronikov - a creep by all definitions of the word, but a sober creep, who’d stayed sober for longer than Hank had been an alcoholic. Except, that didn’t seem to be the case anymore.

Hank sighed, resigning himself to a long night spent at the DPD Central Station. “Now, whatcha got yourself into, you sick fuck…”

Sumo made a disgruntled noise. He knew, just like his human did, exactly what kind of night they had in front of them. Hank shrugged into a worn old denim jacket despite it being late Autumn, and together they settled into his old Ford Granada, Knights of the Black Death blasting from its old speakers. Heading into the metro area, little did they know that the coming week would spell out Apocalypse Now-ish, if not for one chance encounter with the most stubborn atheist in the world. And the grace of God.

***

In the life of one Connor Stern, youngest detective sergeant in DPD history to be up for the rank of lieutenant at a mere 36 years and change, it was a safe assumption to make that if he wasn’t on the clock, he was still working. Despite department regulations on restricted information he regularly brought his tablet home to review his case notes and go over older cases that for some reason or another had gone cold. It rubbed him the wrong way, the cold cases that were inevitable even in this day and age, with fingerprints and DNA, and the mandatory registration thereof. It irked him, as his mother would say - and his mother was never wrong. She could level him with one assessing look and know everything he’d been up to that day in order chronological and alphabetical. She knew his moods whether he liked it or not; and accordingly, she knew when to give him parentally inclined pokes, or leave well enough alone. Unfortunately, she was more inclined to poke than not, and Connor much preferred it when she didn’t. Then again, that’s how it had always been since the day he moved in with her, enraged by the world and terrified of it at the same time. She’d been the first not to belittle his worries, or send him back to child services the moment he acted out. There’d been a lot of that, growing up, but Amanda was always excruciatingly patient with him. When all he wanted was to get a reaction out of her, she’d sat him down in her study, handed him a book to read, and made tea.

He loved books to this day, and tea. Green tea, especially. Genmaicha - to which roasted and popped rice were added to the blend - was a favorite that he still turned to for comfort, especially those nights that he couldn’t sleep for all the noises in his head. Nothing better than a pot of it in the dead of night, pouring over his files. They made a suitable substitute for Amanda’s books, if not quite so riveting. Or rather, they were engrossing in a completely different manner. 

This week’s caseload was one for the books, alright. It was like Halloween came and went but never really ended, leaving everyone from Missing Persons to Homicide to Narcotics working overtime. November was supposed to be a reprieve, ideally. That sweet spot right after the craziest week of the year (statistically proven, in both quantifiable and qualitative measure) leading into the holiday season, starting with Thanksgiving, but lately it seemed there was nothing ideal about the world.

Crouching beside a dead man in a meticulously cleaned restroom - the only restroom of the Foodorama Diner in Ravensdale - Connor’s assessment seemed all the more fitting. Nothing ideal at all about the world, and his entire generation was living proof of that observation. So, when life gives you lemons, what do you do? If you’re Connor Stern, you throw yourself into pursuit of your goals, while attempting to keep a fairly neutral outlook on life. If you’re one Gavin Reed, you take another route. You go about life as much of a bitch as you can be, because if life itself is a certified female canine, you might as well become one.

“Whatcha got there, Connie?” Asked the aforementioned Detective Reed, walking into the restroom as if he owned the place. As a general rule, he was more suited to interviewing witnesses, while Connor’s strengths lay in forensics - there was nothing he couldn’t get out of a blood stain or gun powder residue, but he was rarely patient enough with shocked witnesses to get the proper results. Likewise, Reed could only rarely muster up the proper enthusiasm for gathering and analyzing evidence that he ought. It was a win/win situation for all involved - not least of all the victims and those they left behind.

Connor didn’t so much turn his head as he arched his eyebrows. The jibe meant nothing to him. “Mr Dalton here was overcome by our wayward perpetrator and subsequently positioned on the floor like the Vitruvian Man, and--”

“English. How many times do I have to tell you: English.”

Reed leaned back against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest - or so Connor gleaned from his peripheral vision and the aid of the mirrors set above the sinks. Three Gavins, all in a row, trying to get a rise out of him. It was a game they played, in which no one would win. They were both too stubborn to budge one inch - Connor never rose to the bait, and Gavin never stopped jerking his chain. They got the job done. That was the only thing that mattered.

“It’s one of the most famous icons of Renaissance art. The drawing, by Da Vinci? Most famous polymath of the age?”

Reed stepped further into the room, mindful of the few yellow markers laid out on the floor, crouching beside his partner. “...you mean the snow angel thing? Yeah. I can see that.”

Sometimes, Connor had the distinct impression Reed was playing dumb just to annoy him. You don’t make detective if you’re completely moronic. “It’s a mathematical study of the proportions of the human body, using theories laid down by an architect named Vitruvius.”

Reed listened, absently gnawing on the inside of his lip, looking very much like he had a toothache. Perhaps it was beginning to dawn on him that there was more to the crime scene than was immediately apparent. “You think it’s significant?”

“Perhaps. As I was saying, before you cut me off: After he was positioned like this, with his arms out and his legs spread at that precise angle, his wrists and throat were slit.”

Neither one of them mentioned the cross shape carved into the old man’s forehead, just looked at each other with the same, exact impression: post mortem. It was a simple enough rule to live by - if someone cuts you, and you don’t bleed, you’re not alive at the time.

It seemed somehow-- disrespectful, in a way Connor couldn’t precisely articulate. That irked him, too - like the message smeared across the three mirrors, in the victim’s own blood. rA9 SAVE US PLEASE SAVE US.

“What did you learn from the witnesses?”

“He was a regular. Came here once a week, every week, same time. Mr Punctuality... But, just look at the guy. Not likely someone stalked him forever and decided ‘if I can’t have him, no one will’. Ugly fuck.”

Connor blinked, and blinked again. Reed may be correct in his observations, even if they made little sense from Connor’s perspective. Aesthetics were notoriously subjective, though he’d never understood why. “He has a perfectly symmetrical face: his bone structure is exquisite.”

“Yyyeah,” said Reed through a fresh grin. “You would say that. What the fuck happened here, anyway? You got that look on your face like something pinged your radar.”

Connor looked the man over, his eyes moving on to sweep over the clean-looking state of the floors. “Our perpetrator didn’t waste any time. They overpowered the victim, slit his throat and wrists, arranged him like this, then quickly wrote that message over there, before mopping the floor. That’s the part that bothers me.”

“The douche is a neat freak? I thought you loved that sort of thing.”

“No. They went to the trouble of cleaning up, but left both the body in clear view, as well as the message. ‘rA9, save us’. If they wanted to maximize the time frame to get away, then why not hide the body? The scribbles could’ve been passed off as just that: nothing of note, until someone discovered the body.”

Gavin pursed his lips, leaning over what, unbeknownst to both detectives, was the unfortunate victim # 1. These were early days yet. No one, not even Detective Sergeant Stern could have foreseen what was to unfold in the coming days. “You don’t think he ran out of time.”

“Use your eyes, Reed. Tell me I’m wrong about this.”

“Fine, fine.” Reed let his eyes move around the restroom, snapping his fingers in an impromptu rhythm through the mandatory latex gloves. “There’s something decidedly not-sloppy about the place. Like I said, neatfreak.”

“But that’s not all there is to it,” said Connor. They may have a certain kind of jargon between them, but he was always gratified to see the more professional side of his partner. Even if he’d never appreciated crime scene investigation quite like Connor did.

“The lettering is precise. Also not-sloppy. And then there’s the cuts.”

Connor started to grin. “‘Not-sloppy’?”

“Yeah. Deliberate. Clean cuts, no hesitation.”

There was only one conclusion to make: they were dealing with the most dangerous of perpetrators, a predator that planned ahead and didn’t seem to care about getting caught. Quite the opposite, for all the clean up, it was plain to see that this was a killer that wanted to be caught.

Worse yet, perhaps, as possibilities went, this killer wanted to be chased.

“He isn’t done yet, is he,” said Reed, and Connor could only agree with his assessment. Reluctantly.

“We don’t know the gender of our perp,” said Connor, in clean, crisp observation. “It would be wrong to assume.”

“Open mind?” Reed drawled, as unconcerned with gender variation as anyone could ever be. But that wasn’t quite Connor’s point. They didn’t know what they were dealing with yet, and to assume even such an apparently obvious thing about their perpetrator could steer them down the wrong path. He’d seen it happen far too often over the course of his career.

“But not so open that your brain falls out.”

***

“Jesus Christ, Hank…”

The cold overhead lights of DPD’s own Central Station did nothing for the gloomy air inside the Captain’s glass cubicle-cum-office. Fowler was a big man, sat behind a small desk covered in tablets and family treasures and a general clutter. In many ways, Jeffrey Fowler could be read by the state of his desk: neat and clean, he was on top of things, everything under control. The state of his desk at present told Hank he was barely keeping his head above water. That, as well as the blasphemy. He was usually more careful about that, given Hank’s vocation.

“Tell me about it,” murmured Hank around the filter of a brand new cancer stick, flicking his thumbnail against the lighter wheel until it flashed alight. Fowler didn’t smoke, but they’d been through enough shit together that he didn’t give Hank too much griping over his bad habits. As long as he stayed off the drink, Fowler gave him as much slack as a best friend ever did. Not enough, by far.

“Do you absolutely have to smoke that thing in here?”

“What? I thought you hate being on display for the entire bullpen to see. Whatcha got to hide, anyway? You know, I can spring you a nice deal with the bearded old fart upstairs…”

Fowler grunted, saying “You know neither one of us actually believe that,” and got up to grab a fresh cup of coffee from his private espresso machine. Thing cost a fortune, and still the coffee was shit. He made a gesture with one of the empty cups on the little table in the corner; Hank shook his head  _ no thanks _ .

Fowler sat down, a touch too heavy for his too small chair and his too cluttered desk. He sipped his coffee, buying himself time for the things he needed to say. “Listen, you know I can’t tell you all the details. But, you saw the news, right?”

“Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t. I’d recognize one of my herd of black sheep anywhere.”

“You don’t have a congregation, Anderson. What gives? How do you know the Andronikov guy?”

“We go back. Way back. That’s all you need to know.” Hank dragged in his fill of smoke, pushing it out through his nostrils, knowing full well it made him look like a relic. “You’ve heard back from Miller and Collins?”

Fowler nodded, sipping his brew with a wrinkle across his nose. Not even he liked the coffee, but it was better than the watered down nonsense served in the break room.

“Was there anything...unusual about him? Did he seem unusually strong, did he speak in tongues?”

“Jesus  _ Christ _ ,” Fowler cursed, again. “He has a history of substance abuse. You know as well as I do that drugs do strange things to the human body. He came to the States when he was a kid, right? I think my officers can tell the difference between any variety of foreign languages.”

“That’s not what I mean, Jeffrey. For fuck’s sake, I’m not pulling the Stupid White Man card, here. I’m talking superhuman strength out of a guy who’s stuffed his face with more junk these past two decades than you can shake a stick at. I’m asking if he spoke in a language he couldn’t possibly have known, or that your  _ officers _ pegged as so far left field it left them reeling.”

Fowler took a deep, deep breath that ended a lot like a sigh. “Demonology’s not my forte, Hank… Maybe you’d better talk to him, yourself. He’s been taken to hospital, just to get a checkup. I’ll call Miller, let him know you’re en route.”

Hank smiled, glad for the leeway. They bumped knuckles, and Hank was soon on his way. “Thanks, Jeff. I owe you one.”

“You owe me a lot more than that, Hank. Now get the fuck outta here - and leave the goddamn door open, let all this smoke out.”

***

The past week had been tough and beguiling in equal measures, if you asked one Connor Stern. Even if you set aside the case load, or the nature of the cases tending towards the more vicious parts of human nature, even without that, this was a week that he couldn’t wait to see the back of. He’d had two electrical blackouts in three days. He was out of water since yesterday, and had to rely on the self-proclaimed Christian charity of his next-door neighbour, the elderly firecracker by name of Mrs Thompson. She seemed convinced that helping an atheist swine (her term, not his) would get secure her place among the Lord’s favorite lambs - and she wasn’t afraid to tell him all about it.

To top it off, he was beginning to worry about his own sanity. At first, he thought it was just the squad car’s radio glitching. It started as a weird quirk of the car. New car, new problems, Reed joked; whenever Connor reached for the dashboard and picked the radio station, it was inevitably playing something by The Doors. It was amusing, the first few times. Not when it had been happening for days and days. Not so much when the speakers at the Foodora diner started playing  _ People are Strange _ as he walked through the doors. If he never heard a line about faces in the rain, or women seeming wicked, he would die a happy man.

He pulled into the DPD parking garage, catching the first glimpse of a man that he would never forget: head bowed to the flash of a flame, silvery gray curls hanging over his face like a veil, then, snapped back as the man stretched his neck back, letting out a plume of smoke right outside the visitor’s entrance. The small silver cross twinkled in the bright white LED lights of the garage, dangling from a chain around his neck. He wore dark jeans, a band t-shirt tucked into them, stretched over a soft belly, and a denim jacket that was likely as old as Connor. If not older. There was something about the man that told Connor to keep his eyes and ears open: that not only was there more to him than meets the eyes, but if they ever had reason to meet, he’d better not make assumptions.

As Fate would have it, Reed made sure they did. Not because he normally had a score to settle with people who ignored a No Smoking Sign right outside a public building...but because the man with the cigarette was just the kind of guy Reed had a problem with. He was far too comfortable in his own skin for Reed to just let it slide.

***

Coming out from the relative warmth of the station, Hank stopped for his second cigarette in less than ten minutes. So much for nicotine patches, fuck all good they did. He lit up, and just as the flame sparked, he could feel a sense of déjà vu. Or an inkling of things to come, as if he’d been here before and knew exactly what was gonna go down. Further off, down by the visitors parking, he could hear Sumo barking. Not to warn off intruders, or even to warn him - any dog owner worth their weight in salt could tell the difference between the dark, menacing growl of a dog that means business, and the...excitable yelping coming from inside his car. Just then an unmarked police sedan parked in its allotted space, and two very peculiar things happened, in short succession.

Two detectives got out of the car, like the lead-in to a bad joke: one marched towards him, like a powder keg waiting for a spark, dark and crackling with pent up energy. The other froze in his step as their eyes met, and Hank had a feeling right then and there that things were about to get interesting. The terrier stepped up to him, yapping about regulations, but Hank’s focus lay elsewhere.

He was looking at a force of nature, cleverly hidden in a freckled face with the biggest doe eyes you ever did see. Now, Hank had never claimed to read auras, but he was better at sizing you up than most people, and the slender, young guy in the pristine suit, with the patterned tie, all blacks and greys? He had the kind of energy about him that could save the world or plunge it into chaos, and he had energy to spare. His eyes were sharp as knives, and their eyes didn’t waver not for one step as he walked closer.

Of course, his partner wasn’t having it, with the lack of affirmation. Maybe Hank wasn’t really listening, but he heard the insults loud and clear, once they came. He cut his eyes to the dark little man, which shut him up nicely. Sometimes that’s all it took, just a pointed stare. He let out his breath, angling the stream of smoke away from the detective’s face. He didn’t want to start a fight when he had other places to be, better things to do.

The detective found his gusto again, starting up all over again. “Ya hear me? Or are you deaf  _ and _ dumb, asshole?”

“Oh, I heard you, son.”

“Reed, come on,” said the other detective, and his voice was a strange concoction; pleasing to listen to, but hard around the edges.

“Yes, Detective Reed, do go on. You have a good day, now, stay out of trouble,” said Hank, watching with no small measure of satisfaction as it shut the guy up. Even better, the other guy’s eyes lit up; Hank winked at him, and started walking, leaving them both with an insolent little wave. Behind him, he could hear the one named Reed blow another fuse, as the other one herded him into the station.

“Who was that fucker?”

“I don’t know. But he’s the only one besides the Captain to shut you up good. Twice, in as many minutes.”

“Fuck off. Dipshit.”

“Moron.”

If his gut instinct steered him right (it almost always did), that was Fowler’s best and brightest: Detectives Reed, and his partner Stern. Oh, yes. Interesting, indeed. He had a feeling this wasn’t the last time they’d cross paths. 


	2. No One Remembers Your Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Det Sgt Stern has another date with destiny, but first he has some troubling insights into the case of the ritualistic murder victim, Mr Dalton. Consequently, he consults his foster mother, Professor Amanda Stern, renowned expert in the fields of symbology and demonology.
> 
> Father Anderson goes to see an old frenemy at the hospital, ie his sponsor, and agrees to do him a favor. This does not go entirely as planned, but then what can you expect in the life of an exorcist?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just want to add a serious warning for gruesome, potentially upsetting stuff. Don't want to spoil too much, but if you have issues with teeth, better skip the parts with Hank inside the mansion. If you have issues with a priest of any description adopting a more...agnostic approach to demonic expulsion, skip the parts with Hank inside the mansion. If you're easily offended, hey. Skip the entire fic. ;)
> 
> No, but seriously, though. Hank has some badassery to get to, and he isn't too bothered about how to go about getting shit done.
> 
> I hope you enjoy! It sure took a bit of thinking to get everything in order for this one. Ah, sequences of events~
> 
> Watch this space for more - and if you're not already following me on TwitJer, I'm @NdePlume1! Come say hi, or just follow for updates and random bouts of hankcon love.

* * *

You would think that the daily routine of a dedicated law enforcement officer was a fixed one, as implied by the word ‘routine’, but for any detective working homicide, that was as far from the truth as it gets. Nothing routine about their daily toil, and for Stern and Reed, today was no different. It was nearing ten o’clock in the evening when they settled at their desks at the station ready to dig into the more tedious side of the job, namely paperwork. Neither one of them had family or pets to go home to, both preferring to burn the midnight oil. More often than not, you’d go home only to get another call and have to head back out. It came with the job description: all work, no play. Tonight was no different, except for one thing. Reed was still seething from their first encounter with Connor’s destiny. The smoking man, with the silver hair and the Black Sabbath t-shirt, whose lit up face would stay with Connor for hours into their ongoing shift - Reed was content to mumble slurs and curses under his breath, and Connor was equally content to ignore him. He had work to do, might as well get to it, keep himself an invaluable cog in the machinery that was the DPD.

Meanwhile... Somewhere between the Detroit City Zoo and the station - for one, unlucky victim of circumstance, though by no means an innocent man, the threads that bind one’s soul and body together were beginning to unravel. A priest and his constant companion were about to find himself smack dab at the eye of the storm.

***

Hospitals - in Hank Anderson’s not entirely humble opinion, they were a scourge: a mass of pestilent boils on the face of the planet. Good things rarely came to pass in a hospital. People were mistreated, misdiagnosed, misunderstood, misgendered, mis- _ everything _ . People went there for help, and what did they get but prescribed medication that did more bad than good? People died there, lost their loved ones  _ and _ their hard earned cash in one fell swoop. No, thank you. Hospitals and Hank were not on good terms since some three years back. They were on such bad terms that just setting foot in one made his skin crawl. He never set foot inside one without Sumo glued to his right leg.

Neither one of them had been quite the same since that day. It was only fair that the only living creature in the world who understood his levels of anxiety was right there at his side. By his side, through thick and thin, he was a thousand times better than any bottle of Black Lamb, or a hundred packs of cigarettes.

People smiled as they walked down the corridors. No one said a word about Sumo’s presence, not even the nice young officer who sat outside the room. Vigilant, sharp, wide awake. Just what the DPD needed. “Officer Miller,” said Hank. “How’s our friend doing?”

“...Father Anderson?”

Hank nodded, Sumo sitting down beside him, throwing cautious looks between his human and the other one. “One and only. ‘Mister’ will do, though. I’m not much for formalities,” he added, handing over his ID for the sake of expediency.

“Right. Mr Andronikov’s awake, but under some...pretty heavy sedation, actually. I don’t know if he’s up for visitors.” Miller’s dark brown eyes clipped sideways, as if he’d said too much and wasn’t sure why he’d volunteered information. Hank replaced the photo ID into his phone case, tucked it away.

“He’s up for me, Officer. I won’t be long.”

The hospital room itself was as depressing as you’d expect. Washed out peaches and sickly green wasn’t exactly Hank’s idea of a Happy Place color scheme, but he wasn’t much for interior decorating. He had a bone to pick with an old friend, and Zlatko looked just as much of a creepy fucker as he remembered. Pale as the driven snow, thinning dark hair kept too long for his chubby face, eyelashes twitching with distress. He wasn’t asleep, but he wasn’t awake, either. Hank pulled up the nearest chair and parked his ass.

“Hey, Zlatko, buddy. Rise and shine.”

He got nothing for it. Just more twitching. He could feel his eyebrows pulling into a frown. Just looking at his sponsor made something clench around his sternum. Zlatko looked like shit. Clammy, forehead slick with perspiration. You could almost smell the fear evaporating off of him. Hank tried again, patting his (restrained) arm for added effect. “Hey, asshole. Wakey-wakey. I’m talking to you.”

As was so often the case, it was Sumo who got shit done around here. The big dog took one long, hard look at the pair of them, then gave a loud, gut wrenching bark that could scare anyone back onto the ol’ straight and narrow. Andronikov startled awake with a gasp, beady black eyes darting around the room as if the Bogey Man himself had dropped by on a surprise visit.

“H--...  _ Hank _ ? Jeeesus  _ Christ!  _ What the fuck are you doing here?”

Hank allowed himself a warm smirk. Creep though he was, they’d been through some tough shit, and Hank owed him. He didn’t like the guy, but he could still feel a sense of gratitude. “The fuck ya think I’m doing? What the fuck are  _ you _ doing here, huh? I saw your ugly mug on the news. I’m the one who should be cursing. Are you off the wagon, or what?”

Zlatko squirmed within the confines of his leather bracelets, courtesy of the state. Hank knew he was about to tell a lie just by the look on his face. “I don’t… I mean, I don’t-- go near the stuff anymore. Hank, come on! So I party--  _ occasionally _ , but it’s all booze and weed! I’m off the red stuff, I  _ swear! _ ”

“Alright.” Hank spread his knees a bit wider, leaning closer. So, Zlatko wasn’t using, but he was twitchy - and Hank had a theory he wanted to disprove, and fast. “Then what’s got into you that you can pick up a wrought iron park bench and  _ yeet  _ it like an empty soda can?”

He watched his old friend-by-exaggeration go from glassy eyed confusion to something more concerning. His breathing was picking up, the monitor by his bedside beeping faster. He seemed unable to blink, just staring at Hank from a great divide. “I don’t know.”

“What happened at the zoo? You went ballistic. Scared a lot of people.”

“I  _ don’t know _ . I don’t remember.” Zlatko’s voice wobbled precariously close to fear and some other, intangible emotion. “I don’t remember going to the fuckin’  _ zoo _ . What would I do at the goddamn  _ zoo _ , Hank? Pet the animatronic polar bears?”

“Fuck if I know. You tell me.”

And that was when the penny dropped, or the other shoe more like it. Zlatko’s reptile brain seemed to catch up with events, and his eyes welled up with tears that had nothing to do with grief. He was struck by the fear of the unknown. “I’m not a good guy, Hank, I know, but-- I… I-I think I’m in trouble.”

Hank clasped his hands, elbows resting atop his knees. Demons were a notoriously tricky business, and he had to be careful not to read too much between the lines of Zlatko’s stuttering confessions. He’d have to come back, take a gander at his test results, talk to his doctor. Maybe suggest a psych eval. If he came up roses,  _ then _ Hank could move onto more immediately pressing matters, like possession.

“What makes you say that? Either you don’t remember anything, or you do.”

The sedation didn’t do much for Zlatko now that he was up and running, however figuratively speaking. Awake but groggy, and increasingly terrified, the words spilled from his mouth like a torrent. “I  _ know  _ I’ve had parties. Like I do, you know, nekkid fun times, multiple partners,  _ mi casa es su _ games emporium, anything goes-- It’s just that I… I remember inviting them, all of them, but I don’t remember them leaving. It’s just me in the house. I invite people, we have a good time, and when I wake up in the-- whenever, wherever, it’s just me. And the weird shit. Voices. Messages.”

“Messages…” Hank nodded the once, by increments: slowly. He didn’t like the sound of that.

“Look,” said Zlatko suddenly, hand lifting and thwarted mid-way by his restraints. He sighed. He had an itch to scratch behind his ear, but his hands were literally tied.

“I know you’re not a real priest,” he said, and Hank opted for silence rather than banter. He  _ was _ ordained, thank you very much. Let the guy talk, see where he was going with this. It was a trick Hank had used a thousand times, and it worked nine times out of ten. It worked this time as well.

“Do you...pray?”

“Every day, Andronikov.”

Zlatko nodded, tongue darting out to wet parched lips. “Right. You know Latin, right?”

Hank nodded, and again opted for the silent treatment.

“In my house? I keep finding these...messages. Like the hall mirror, the big one, in the hall? Right when you step inside? And the ashes. Someone keeps building sand castles, real shitty ones-- in the fucking fireplace. And I  _ swear to God _ I can hear someone singing in the bathroom.”

“Are we talking voices or scribbles?”

Zlatko shrugged, looking more dejected by the second, even with Hank’s undivided attention. Even Sumo was all ears. “I don’t know,” he said. “‘Liberate me’, or something. Fuck if I know. Just-- Could you check it out? Perform a cleansing, some shit like that? I have cash, it’s in a drawer in the kitchen, help yourself, but--”

Hank held up his hand in a forestalling gesture, eyebrows arched and a carefully friendly smile in play. “How about I go check it out first, and then you can buy me a kale smoothie when you get outta here? Deal?”

The air all but went right out of him, and with it came a tiny grin. “You know where the key is.”

“How could I forget.” Hank got to his feet, and Sumo followed his lead. “Stay out of trouble, okay? I’ll be back in the morning.”

***

Zlatko’s house, which was less of a house and more of a mansion, was settled in snugly among the more remote peripherals of hallowed suburbia. The area used to be one of the more affluent parts, back when the Andronikovs bought the place, but like most treasured heirlooms the house and surrounding yard was a bit worn. Well loved enough, added to over the years with extensions, like the conservatory, the landscaped garden in the back - or what used to be a proper garden. Hank had been here once or twice before and seen the state of it. Zlatko didn’t care much for gardening, but at least he mowed the lawn. Or, he used to. As Hank drove up he couldn’t stop himself thinking it looked a bit like that house from Psycho.

“All it’s missing’s a hill, eh, buddy?”

Sumo kept his opinion to himself, ever the diplomat. Hank parked the car with a grin, and the two of them braved the creepy-ass house. He found the key where it had always been, tucked away under an overturned flower pot full of cigarette butts and ashes. Just what Hank needed. Even the stink of old cigarettes made him want to light up. But, all in due course. The door opened without undue stress. Nothing jumping out at them, no jump scares, no surprise demons, but the air inside was stale, and carried all the freshness of over ripened fruit fallen from the tree. It was like an invisible wall, acting like a word of caution.  _ Do Not Cross _ .

For all the misconceptions surrounding Hank’s vocation - he’d been called everything from witch to demon hunter to charlatan - he had no special gifts, no super powers, no God Almighty on speed dial; but you didn’t survive in this line of work if you didn’t pick up a thing or two right quick. ‘Learn fast, or die trying’. That was his motto, and he stood by it to this day. The day he stopped learning, and fast, was the day he’d die. He never turned down an opportunity to learn, or pick up a thing here and there. Like how to recognize the sweet, sickening smell of corruption that filled the house, causing his canine friend to growl as menacing as a Rottweiler.

“I know, buddy. Keep your eyes peeled. Go, have a look. Search!”

The state of the house was as he expected. Full of the things that spoke of comfortable living on the verge of excess. Zlatko’s family had always been well off, but after his parents died, Zlatko wasted most of the inheritance not tied up in real estate on sex, drugs and questionable habits. Not that Hank judged anyone - that was God’s prerogative, not his, even as priest. The books, the furniture, the knick-knacks were all inherited. Like the mirror right off the staircase - a grand old thing, gilded frame and everything. No scribbles, far as Hank could see - and besides, he was more interested in what Sumo had found. He stood stock still, indicating the living room and the room beyond. The kitchen.

But it was the fireplace in the living room that got Hank’s attention. It hadn’t been used since last winter, judging by the cobwebs, but there was something about Zlatko’s befuddled reference to the ashes that had Hank intrigued. And as he stepped closer, something struck him as very out of place. He grabbed the poker from the stand and crouched on the tiles in front of the fireplace, eyeing the pile of ashes like it was a modern piece of art. The pile itself wasn’t the odd part, nor that it wasn’t just the result of something burning, but shaped into a mound. He was expecting that - but what he wasn’t expecting was how within that mound lay tiny little chunks of...something hard. Sumo whined behind him, urging him to get on with whatever he was doing and get over there, so Hank carefully picked up the pace, spreading everything into a level layer. Sumo was distressed, and rightly so. Hidden within the ashes were little wedges, part white, part stained and smudged with soot and...scorched fleshy bits. Hank realized with a mental cringe that he was looking at a collection of human remains. Teeth, and lots of them.

Sad thing was, a bundle of human teeth wasn’t the worst thing he’d seen. Hank gave a small sigh, and crossed himself with his left hand. “Rest easy, kid,” he told the remains, and pushed to his feet. “You’re gonna be okay.”

Bringing the poker with him, he and Sumo crept closer to the kitchen, towards a faint mumbling sound. The closer they got the more intense the stench of decay, and that other quality Hank had always struggled to put his finger on - like walking past a dumpster at the height of summer. The collected human experience boiled down to varied stages of putrefaction. As they drew closer, Sumo went quiet as a mouse in church, which only made the mumbling easier to hear. It was wet; slippery and rasping at the same time. Like sandpaper and Jell-O - individually awesome, but a bad combination.

Rounding the corner, one of Zlatko’s concerns came into full view. Thin and wiry, with skin that seemed to shrink and crack and slip off its anatomical frame, breaking and tearing where someone had carved symbols into the skin, so deep as to hit bone and viscera. It was humanoid, twisted. Mumbling, chattering to itself, its long fingers digging into its mouth like there was buried treasure somewhere in there. Sure enough, something worthwhile gave way with a loud  _ plop _ , and the long, bony fingers pulled out their find: a pearly, glistening, wedge-like gem. More accurately, a molar.

Now, the thing about demons… They’re not all built the same, and the notion that all spirits or demons were evil was nowhere near a universal concept. In fact, most spirits were seen (and quite correctly so) to be neutral entities. Inoffensive for the most part - you leave them alone, they give you the same courtesy. Some were even benevolent, or, more often, perfectly happy to set up a quid pro quo deal with the human population. Most of human history was scattered with little, recurring rituals that made no sense in a modern world. Certain words being strictly forbidden, or offerings placed on one’s doorstep at night, maypole dances, wishing on the stars or the moon and offering a drop of one’s blood, leaving cookies and milk for Santa, or a bowl of porridge out in the stables for the resident gnome… Little creatures, small gestures; big rewards if you did everything correctly, and big fucking consequences if you forgot something. You enter an arrangement with a spirit, you don’t get out of it unless you’re dead - not out of sheer malevolence on their part, but because it’s not the done thing.

But this thing before him wasn’t a cantankerous gnome, nor anything likely to protect your hearth and home if you made nice with it. This was something else entirely. The likes of which brought about the legend of another, benevolent spirit, feared and loved in equal amounts by children all over the world because their parents made them believe a fairy dusted creature would trade their teeth for coin. But why anyone would have summoned it, here, of all places...

“HEY!” Hank called out, raising the poker like a baseball bat. The creature turned its head, and  _ only  _ its head, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. Where there had once been twin rows of perfectly good human teeth, were fangs; they were tiny, like milk teeth, but razor sharp. It hissed, shoulders hunching in preparation to lunge, but Hank saw it coming a mile away. He swung the iron poker high, sinking its business end into the skull of the newly spawned demon with a sickening crunch.

***

“Did she say what’s so fucking urgent it couldn’t wait?” asked Reed, trying to keep up with Connor’s determined stride. They were headed to the coroner’s office, or what Reed mock-cheerfully called ‘the crypt’.

“Doctor Howard never exaggerates, and she said we  _ had to _ come see something,” Connor stated quite matter-of-factly, though he was somewhat concerned; she never exaggerated, but he’d never known her to sound so excited. It was a peculiar notion, one which quickened his step all the way to the polished metal underbelly of the coroner’s office. Doctor Howard was an impressive woman, who, despite being somewhat vertically challenged, never let anything get in her way. She had her latest best friend, the late Mr Dalton, Meredith, laid out on one of the exam slabs, covered by a green sheet, and she was right there waiting expectantly on her stepping stool.

“You haven’t cracked him open yet?” Reed groaned. “What gives?”

Howard smiled and lifted the sheet with a bit of flair, revealing what had to be the weirdest thing ever to crop up over the course of Connor’s career. “Gentleman. Detective. Know your Latin scripture?”

“ _ Fuuuuckmeeeee _ \--” Reed cursed, clearly disgusted, but Connor stepped closer to the slab, and the doctor’s findings. There were carvings all over the old man’s chest and belly. Not just legible text, but symbols.

“ _ Libera te tutemet de morte aeterna? _ ”

“Yup!” chirped Howard. “Text book, but not quite, am I right?”

Connor could sense Reed moving behind him even without the sound of his agitated footsteps. There was another outburst waiting to blow in 3...2...1… “Since when do you know Latin?!”

Connor shrugged, leaning down closer where Howard indicated he look. “It’s a hobby.”

“Latin’s not a  _ hobby _ ,” scoffed Reed. “It’s an ancient  _ fucking _ language!”

“Not Latin  _ per se _ . Languages. I like languages.”

Hobby or no hobby, but it certainly proved useful. Howard went on to describe the number of symbols she’d found on the victim’s body, and how the text was repeated on Mr Dalton’s back. One thing in particular struck him as particularly interesting, just looking at the injuries. Compared to the carved cross on Dalton’s forehead, these symbols and writings were clearly made pre mortem. Not just that, but they were older than a few hours. “Can you tell how long ago they were made?”

Howard nodded, the movement sharp and crisp. “Going by the scarring, I’d say it was done well over a week ago. See the reddish, bluish quality to the scars? That’s fresh, but old enough to have healed over completely.”

Connor nodded, deliberately mirroring the doctor’s assertive gesture. “But deep enough to leave a lasting impression.”

***

Outside Doc Howard’s  _ sanctum sanctorum _ , en route back to the bullpen, Reed just couldn’t leave well enough alone. But then again, he never could.

He looked Connor over from the corner of his eye, top to bottom and up again. “Time to call Mommy Dearest for advice? With the symbols and shit?”

He wasn’t wrong about the course of action, which was the main reason Connor didn’t tell him to go fuck the nearest fire hydrant. “I’m more concerned about the fact our seemingly quiet, mild-mannered victim’s been walking around with those things for over a week. Did he have them done to him? By whom? Why?”

Reed grinned, answering with an exaggerated shrug. “Kinky shit, I’ll give ya that.”

“Not necessarily, but it  _ is _ interesting. And you’re right, Professor Stern is  _ the _ expert in her fields of study. Why wouldn’t I consult her? You tagging along?”

The answer he got was a guffaw of a laugh - he saw that one coming, too. Amanda and Gavin had never seen eye to eye, from the day their paths crossed. “I’ll ‘tag along’ the day pigs fly and bacon rains down from the heavens. I’ll go over the witness statements, see if anything jumps out at me.”

“Tag me if you upload anything vital?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. Have fu-uuun!”

***

Professor Amanda Stern was a legend in her own right, and someone who carried herself with all the grace and poise of someone who had never taken her achievements for granted, and worked harder than most to get where and what she wanted. In other words, she knew that she was in possession of the sharpest mind in her fields of academic study, but didn’t feel the need to prove herself to anyone. Those days were long gone, now. She wasn’t the kind to boast her successes, although she delighted in disproving idiotic theories if and when she came across such things. It was terribly common in her circles. Too much ego turned people blind to their own fallacies.

Perhaps that was one reason why she’d never regretted taking in her foster son. Connor had always been a terribly bright child - terrible in that he understood so much of how the world worked, but he was too young to completely process it all. As he grew up, he’d never seemed too aware of his own brilliance (and he  _ was _ brilliant), except for when it became an excuse for bullying him. He didn’t understand what was wrong with being good in school, so he simply continued to excel in every subject he found interesting enough. Even the ones he found tedious. It was as if he stood above the petty squabbles of the playground and didn’t mind being ostracized by the other children. For all the time he spent alone, he’d never been a lonely child, for which Amanda was grateful. He’d been through quite enough before he came to live with her. He didn’t need more on his plate. Except, perhaps, tea.

Looking at him now, sitting at her coffee table, scribbling away on his tablet, she couldn’t feel more proud. She walked over with a smile, carrying a tray full of the things they used to enjoy together - Oolong green tea, sandwiches and tiny little sugar cookies. They saw so little of each other these days, she couldn’t help but pamper him a bit.

“Now, let’s see what we’re dealing with, shall we?”

Her guest looked at the tray as she set it down and gave her a slanted look, eyebrow and mouth both tilted in wry amusement. “I don’t think I can eat that many sandwiches, Amanda.”

She smiled, sitting down beside him to serve the tea. “They’re not all for you, smartypants. Now show me. I’ll be mother.”

Connor returned her smile, less wry, more quietly fond. She served tea, and he held up the tablet for her to have a look. “Here. These are the photographs from the coroner’s examination. Symbols from a variety of cultures, from what I can tell, and then that message. Free yourself from eternal death? Shouldn’t there be an  _ ipsum _ somewhere?”

Handing her son his cup of tea, she then lifted her own to her lips to blow a soft stream of air across the surface. “Not necessarily. And, just look at the text. ‘Free yourself’ would be ‘ _ libera temet’ _ and so on _. _ Straightforward, to the point. This is different, more emphatic. If someone chooses to have words carved into their chest, it has to have  _ some _ consequence.”

She swiped the screen to bring up a closer view of the Latin text, pointing at the crucial few syllables. “See this, here?  _ Libera te  _ **_tutemet_ ** ...”

They each sipper their tea, Connor reaching for one of the sandwiches. She could see the gears of his mind turning, and the moment his schooling clicked with his autodidactic knowledge. “...’you, yourself’?”

“It’s a bit circumspect, but catchy. It’s clearly inspired by liturgy, as in the phrase, Free me, God, from eternal death’.”

Connor nodded, biting off a wedge of his treat only to tuck it into his cheek. It made him look like an anthropomorphized hamster. “ _ Libera me, Domine… _ ”

“ _ Ex morte aeterna _ , yes. Precisely. So, what does this imply, then? An absence of divine aide?”

She watched her son chew through his mouthful, and in the secret recesses of her mind she thought he looked a bit paler than he should, a bit too thin across the cheekbones. And that curl at his forehead, that always rebelled against his neat hairstyle... She reached up to smooth it back, though she knew it was only a matter of time before it would slip back out.

“An absence of God, yes. But also that you are on your own, and you have to save yourself,  _ by yourself _ . By your own doing.”

Amanda nodded. It was as she surmised as well, though it didn’t explain why someone would want it carved onto their body. They sat in companionable silence for a little while, sampling the spread of late night treats and tea, both of them puzzled by this enigma laid out before them. It wasn’t uncommon at all for different symbols to be found in the same ancient texts, and most notably the Roman Empire were known to integrate imagery and symbols from the cultures they invaded into their own culture. They weren’t the only major conquering force to do the same, but they were the most consistent, wide-spread. But what did it mean, to see Aramaic and Persian co-mingling with Egyptian hieroglyphs and cuneiform, next to what was practically an order to ‘by your own means’ save yourself from eternal death?

And speaking of practical applications… Amanda set her cup down, refreshing both their cups before the tea went too cold. “I can send you some reference material for the symbols, but I do believe you’ll be better off contacting an expert in clerical studies. I know just the man for this.”

“Oh?” Connor looked at her keenly. It wasn’t often she referred him to someone else, after all. What she didn’t know wasn’t worth knowing, he used to say, in a private joke kind of manner. Of course it struck him as out of the ordinary.

“Father Hank Anderson. He has more practical experience in these matters than I do. I’m sure if there’s more to it than, say, a late onset, midlife crisis scarification spree, he’ll know what to do.”

Neither one of them were devout, but Connor was such a harcore atheist sometimes even she had to remind him science couldn’t account for the entire human experience. He refrained from rolling his eyes, but she could tell it was by a hair’s breadth.

“An expert in what? Hypocrisy?”

Amanda blew across the surface of her tea. “No, child. The  _ practical  _ application of demonology.  _ Exorcism _ .”

***

Exorcism, indeed. One of the most universally misunderstood vocations of the world, sneered at by people who knew better both within and without organized religion, made a mockery of by Hollywood and its cohorts. But what was it all about, at the very core of itself, what was the true nature of exorcism? Was it a cleansing? A middle aged white male waving a book around some unfortunate family’s house, saying he’d drive the devil away with a few well chosen phrases from the Good Book? Sometimes, yes. Was it about wise women and men bringing healing herbs and plants to a clearing, dancing and chanting around a bonfire? Sure. Cross your heart and hope to die, knock on wood and never tell a lie (without crossing your fingers behind your back)…

Of course there was more to it than words and incantations and fire. Sometimes, it involved a shit tonne of salt and a recovering alcoholic spitting holy water in the faces of a dozen attacking Hellspawn.

Hank wiped his bloodied nose with the back of his hand, and went around the circle of salt one more time. Sumo was back to back with him, his guard dog, watchdog extraordinaire, his brother-in-arms, growling up a storm. Just like his human.

“I call upon all things holy, between Heaven and Earth, from the depths of the ocean to the fucking  _ stratosphere  _ and beyond - I call you out, demon! Out of hiding, out of darkness, in the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost; in the name of Lord Krishna, ever victorious, Lord and Preceptor of the universe, the Destroyer and vanquisher of demons; in the name of Amaterasu-omikami, goddess of the sun and the universe and the High Celestial Plain; in the name of Olorun, god of the Heavens and creator of this world; in the names of all benign spirits and higher beings that watch over the mortal realm -  **_I call you out_ ** .  **I cast you out of these bodies you possess, out of this house, out of this realm. I CAST YOU OUT!** ”

Was it about spouting Latin scripture? Not...always. Certainly not when someone was going around mocking his own personal motto - that you didn’t need a church to feel the presence of God, that you didn’t need a priest to save your soul, that only you,  _ yourself _ ,  _ by your own means _ could strive for salvation. This felt personal - and fuck if he was going to play along. You don’t play by a demon’s rules - you make your own rules, and you  _ make them bow to your will _ .

The demons skulked and gnashed their razor sharp baby teeth at him, chattering amongst themselves. Even now, they wouldn’t give in. Their flesh burned by the holy water and his words, but not enough to get his point across. Not enough to stop them from hurtling themselves at the invisible barrier, held up only by a liberal application of salt and steely resolution.

Never blink when staring down a demon. That’s a game of chicken with deadly consequences. It was time to change tack, from one element to another.

Fire and brimstone. Or rather, a bottle of vodka, and a lighter.

Hank unscrewed the cork, and made a declaration to his audience, gathered here today, to partake in holy communion... “ **_This is the blood of Christ!_ ** ”

He snapped his thumbnail at the lighter, and filled his mouth with the burning temptation of hard liquor - and like a fire breather spewed holy fire at the demons, who shrieked and stumbled backwards, and scurried away, but it was all in vain. In stumbling, the fire spread from one to the other, and though they took their refuge to the basement, there was no escaping the fire, which lit up the stairwell like the mouth of Hell itself.

“ **_\--_ ** **_which is shed for you for the forgiveness of sins_ ** **_! This is the blood of Christ!_ ** ”

***

Just when Amanda thought her once shy, precocious boy was going to burst out laughing at the idea of a real, live exorcist in the flesh, his tablet lit up with a prioritized message. Though she didn’t know the DPD’s system of codes and abbreviations, the look on her son’s face told her all she needed to know. It was urgent, and his presence was needed elsewhere. Father Anderson was going to have to wait.

“Take the sandwiches with you. Looks like it’s going to be a long night.”

He pressed his hand to her arm in wordless gratitude, not yet aware of how right she was. “It always is.”

The entire drive over, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this was going to be one for his own, personal record book. It was going to be bad, and messy, and...bad. Worse than bad. Reed’s so-called ‘radar’ was beeping at him like a World War II air strike siren - and the crime scene itself didn’t disappoint. Reed had already checked it out and taken the statements of the man who called it in, leaving Connor free to ‘do his thing’. The house itself was--  _ more of a mansion _ \-- full of heirlooms and knick-knacks, in a dark and gloomy yet cozy sort of way. The one thing that sullied the borderline idyllic air was the stench of burning flesh that hit you the moment you stepped inside. And...something else. Connor tilted his head, letting his eyes go out of focus. 

_ All it’s missing’s a hill, eh, buddy? _

_ … _

_ Rest easy, kid...you’re gonna be okay. _

The real world came back into focus with a bang. Reed was upset about something, or rather, more aggravated than upset, but Connor didn’t heed it much mind. Some level of aggravation was to be expected with his partner, who was rarely laidback about anything. 

“So I asked him where he got the cut lip, and get this! He says he got it from, I shit you not, ‘getting railed by a twink with daddy issues’! What the  _ fuck _ ?”

“As long as it was consensual on both parts, I really don’t care.” Connor was much more intrigued by the fact there had been a rug here, right when you step inside. A big, old-timey one judging by the change in color on the floors, clearly outlining its size, and the general decor of the place. He doubted Mr Andronikov had gone on a shopping spree and bought some modern pieces of interior decorating after his parents died. The absence of the rug intrigued him, as did the placement of the hall table. Odd place, over there, right up close to the bookshelf…

“That’s been moved. Was it like that when you arrived?”

“You’re not listening,” grouched Reed with a long-suffering sigh. “You never fucking listen, Stern.”

“Well, was it?”

“No, no one’s touched anything, everything is right as it was when we got here.”

Another thing caught his eye, then. Something that was the exact opposite of the rug - added, not removed.

“And that line of salt by the staircase?”

Reed elbowed his way past him, mouth slightly open, as if he was ready to spit out another piece of his mind. All he got out was a quiet, befuddled “What? Salt? But wh--…? Nevermind the salt-- you gotta see this. Thirteen bodies in the basement. It’s-- It’s fucking disgusting, ‘swhat it is.”

Thirteen bodies, all dead, all bearing various degrees of burn trauma, facing away from the staircase as if...fleeing. Curled up, or their arms stretched out before them, clawing at the cold concrete floor.

“...all those people,” Connor said, a chill crawling up his spine like something...willowy and distorted...with claws.

“Yeah,” said Reed. Gone was his sarcasm and attitude, and for one moment at least, they could stand united in the face of pointless death. “The old bastard’s not talking, either,” he said. “Just lit up one of those pollution sticks like I wasn’t even there. No respect whatsoever...”

Connor blinked, feeling like he’d lost entire chunks of conversation somewhere. Images flashed before his mind’s eye, of an older man’s face lit up by the flash of a lighter. He had a devil’s grin, and a silver cross hanging from his neck. “Who?”

“Who do you think? Mr Anderson, the rocker grandpa past his sell by date, he called 911 on this mess. Found the bodies when checking the place out for his ‘old friend’, Andronikov.”

Sirens blaring, radar beeping louder and louder, claws digging into Connor’s spine. “ _ Hank _ Anderson? Not  _ Father _ Hank Anderson?”

Reed mirrored his blink, shrugging, throwing out the open palms of his hands as if to ask what gives. “You  _ know him? _ ”

“Not yet,” said Connor, and doubled back up the stairs and through the front door, only to see a familiar car drive off down the road. Connor’s fists clenched at his sides. “ _ Shhhit _ .”

Father Hank Anderson and his dog just gave them the slip, but given his mother’s estimation of the man Connor let him go. He could wait until they’d processed the crime scene. Better to gather all the evidence and see where it got them, than charge in guns blazing on a hunch. Fact of the matter was, he could feel a stirring in his blood. Maybe Father Anderson wasn’t the key to unlocking this mystery, but he sure was  _ something _ . Connor only hoped he wasn’t a can of worms just waiting to be opened.

***

They were well into their thirtieth hour on duty by the time they finished checking out the Andronikov residence and were on their way to Anderson’s last known address - a house on Michigan Drive, up in Sterling Heights. Connor sipped his coffee, letting his recurring insomnia help him through yet another gruelling shift. Gavin wasn’t quite so thrilled about the arrangements, yawning loudly in the passenger seat in the middle of giving Connor the deets on their new friend.

“Anderson, Hank. Man of the cloth, and he goes around looking like a washed up rocker from the 90’s? Talk about getting stuck in yesteryear…”

He went on to relay his priors - drunk and disorderlies, couple bar brawls, “an aggressive sumbitch by all accounts” - and lo and behold, their very own Captain Fowler had vouched for his character, “ _ Oooh _ ,” on more than one occasion.

“So he knows the captain. What else?”

“Lives alone with his dog. Lost his partner and son in a traffic incident three years ago… Seems to have gone downhill since then.”

“Is he connected to a church? Does he have a congregation? Where does he work?”

Reed chortled, in that snort-guffawing way unique to him. “Don’t get your panties in a twist there, Con-man. What is it with you non-believers and your hardon for Christian symbols?”

Connor chose not to answer: they were coming up on Michigan Drive, and that tingling, creepy-crawling sensation at the back of his neck came out in full force. He had to know. He had to find out why Hank had appeared out of nowhere, got planted smack dab in the middle of his life. He pulled up to number 115 and got out, marching right up to the porch and pressed his finger to the doorbell. There was no answer. Not even a peep coming from inside. Reed peeked in through the blinds at the front, nodding at him - Anderson was home. Connor gritted his teeth, squared his jaw, and pressed the doorbell again, right into the goddamn wall, and didn’t let up until he got a reaction. There was movement inside, someone cursing up a storm, angry barking from a big dog. Stomping, heavy steps growing louder until the door was yanked open with a roaring “GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE!” - and none other than the Father himself stood there, wearing precious little other than a bathrobe and boxers. His hair was wet, and coiled with the moisture of a recent shower.

“In your dreams, Father Anderson,” said Connor, unphased, and showed his Detroit PD ID card. Reed glided over to his side, doing the same, but with a shiteating grin on his face.

“I’m Detective Sergeant Connor Stern, Homicide. This is my partner, Detective Gavin Reed. We’re investigating the Andronikov case.”

“Hiya. We’ve met,” grinned Reed, and Connor went on.

“We have some followup questions for you. Thank you in advance for your cooperation.”

What he didn’t expect was exactly what he got - Father Anderson’s eyebrows bounced up high, and he  _ smiled _ , tooth gap and all.

“I had a feeling you’d be dropping by. Come on in, kids. Nevermind the dog, he’s a pussycat. I just made a fresh pot, help yourselves.”

And that’s how Connor got his second date with destiny: unprepared, and not entirely sure he wanted more coffee, with his car radio suddenly playing an old familiar tune about ugly looking faces and uneven streets...


End file.
